


I Don't Want to Set the World on Fire

by grumpipliers



Series: tic, tic, tic. [1]
Category: Fallouthaus, Funhaus, Shiphaus
Genre: M/M, Other, and some blood, fallouthaus - Freeform, so ur warned!, theres violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-06
Updated: 2015-08-06
Packaged: 2018-04-13 05:50:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4510227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grumpipliers/pseuds/grumpipliers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The vaults were never meant to save anyone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Don't Want to Set the World on Fire

**Author's Note:**

> the summary is weak and the title and chapter title don't make sense. i wanted to stick with a music theme for the titles do good luck to me.

White noise. Pure static tracks played while the dwellers slept. Through the sounds messages of unspeakable violence and graphic horror were conveyed. This maniacal process of manipulation caused the occupants of vault 92 to be driven slowly insane and thus started a domino effect of murders, suicides, addictions, and fucked up events with few survivors. 

Joel was one of those deemed ‘lucky’ enough to leave that hellish place alive and in mostly one piece.

One morning the curly haired man woke to a scream that would make anyone’s hair stand straight from their skin. Dark eyes, crusted with sleep from a premature wake up, stared at the ceiling. Guess that must have been this mornings wake up call.

Pushing himself off the bed and making his way to the desk which was stuffed with standard issue vault jumpsuits, he slipped out of his blue pajamas and into the first accessible article of clothing. What a strange morning already. Poorly lit halls were exposed to his dry eyes. All the living quarter room doors were wide open, yet not one person was in their room or in the hall. Something was up. That was painstakingly obvious.

“Uh, is anyone-- Hello?” Joel called, stepping into the hall. His face had a look of pure confusion, dashed with small amounts of fear and concern.

“Yes... yes! Who’s there?” an unknown voice called back from around the corner of the hall.

“It’s Joel. Are you alright?” Joel took large running steps toward the noise.

“Can you help me out-- please?”

Rounding the corner, tired eyes fell upon a man, bloodied and bruised, “Oh...! Oh my god!” He crouched down, pupils darting from one splatter of blood to the next. Fingers glazed inches above the injured spots.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” the man replied, slowly placing hands on the floor and pushing up, standing on shaky legs.

“Are you sure you should be standing? You don’t look alright,” brows became knitted with worry as hands were stationed a few inches behind the back of the injured.

“No, no. I’m quite alright,” the man reached into his pocket and in what was only a matter of seconds had Joel pinned to the metal wall, a switchblade to his throat. 

Joel’s expression quickly morphed into one of panic, bringing one knee to make rough contact with the stranger’s groin, causing this mess of a man to fall to the floor.

Hurried and loud steps found their way to Joel’s room, only to be followed by another, seemingly more angry, set a few seconds later.

“Shit, shit, shit!” Joel rifled through drawers and threw open dresser doors. There was nothing that had even the remote possibility of being a weapon and there was no time to think before this psycho came busting in in a frantic state.

Joel sighed in a panicked manner, swallowing hard and rough. This wasn’t going to end well for him, was it?

The armed man swung and nicked Joel’s chest, causing a rip in the blue fabric and a few centimeters long of a gash to appear. Wincing at the slight and sudden pain, he swung his fists, managing to make the other drop the blade and prepare a look of shock that quickly shifted into more aggression. 

He lunged for the curly haired one, one hand on his throat as he wrestled him to the dirtied floor. Short and muffled gasps seeped through his red lips, while untidied finger nails ripped up bits of skin and scabs that he could reach.

Then the nails found their place managing to get at just a painful enough place to cause the attacker to ease up on Joel’s throat. Using this to his advantage, Joel ripped the hands from his neck, and grasped the other in the same manner, flipping him onto the floor. Knuckles flushed with a deep red while they slammed the attacker's skull against the metal lined floors. Strangled gasps got more quiet with each passing moment until there was no more than the panting of the curly haired man.

Removing his hands, Joel pushed strands of hair wetted with sweat from his forehead. Long fingers found the knife and Joel stood from the room, taking one last look at the man on the ground. He was so confused, yet oddly satisfied with his work. It was a strange mixture of emotions that gurgled within him.

This whole morning was rather rushed. He went from sleeping, to fighting, to killing a man, all for reasons unknown. 

Not seeing any other logical course of action, Joel made his way up the stairs to what was the sealed exit. On the way to the exit, he managed to make it into the armory unscathed. Within those walls he found no armor, but instead stumbled upon a lead pipe and thirteen shotgun shells. He took the pipe and the shells, stuffing the ammo in his jumpsuit pockets and holding the blunt object firmly in hand.

Making his way up flights of metal stairs, he wiped the chest wound as clean as he could with his fingers. Once he reached the top he found the sealed door. Bloody hands sloppily pushed and pulled at the hinges and to no avail, seeing as the door did not move one single inch.

“Fuck!” He yelled, kicking the door with all his might (like that would do anything). Joel began pacing in front of the door, eyes darting around the foyer of the vault. There had to be a switch or a button or something that could open the hunk of metal standing between him and the real world. 

Peering into the rooms, Joel stopped at the doorway of one. There was a wall of lockers, each labeled with a number. Maybe there was something he could use in here; a change of clothes, he hoped. He checked the few locks that remained intact from one hundred years prior. They wouldn’t open. Next, he checked the gaping lockers. Within he found nothing but a casual pink spring dress, dated long before the war. That was his only option (not that he honestly minded).

Walking into the foyer once more, crazed pupils fell on a large switch while twitchy fingers lightly looped around it. Next to this small stand with the switch was a sign that read ‘vault-tec officials only.'

“Well, fuck that,” Joel huffed, pulling the switch with a large grin. Seconds later a large siren blared and a red light flashed, lighting his face in an eerie manner. A loud and rusted mechanism pulled the door back from it’s resting position and rolled it to the side, leaving a long rock corridor exposed. At the end of the corridor was a rickety wooden door with holes that made what was outside of it obvious. 

Joel was ready to face to world of the wastes. His dress was on and his pipe was ready in hand. Not only that, but blood was smeared on his chest and face. So, he braced himself for what the world might be and took echoing steps on the rocky path to the door. Within half a minute he had reached to door, hands gripping the doorknob and twisting as gently as he could.

Pale fingers shielded sensitive eyes from blinding light above. As pupils adjusted, Joel looked around. The wastes were a desolate, barren, and dead place. Joel knew he could rule it all. He could inflict fear and pain far beyond that of anything this hell had ever seen before. And frankly, that was all he wanted.


End file.
